Broken Crown
by Bicycles
Summary: Fifteen years of Azkaban have taken its toll on all the Lestranges.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Harry Potter series; it belongs to J. K. Rowling.

**Warnings: **This one-shot is **unbeta-ed**. I proof-read this several times, but we're all human, so if you find any mistakes, I hope it won't take away from the enjoyment. This story also deals with **incestious situations** as well as **slash** (male/male relationship), and **madness**.

**A/N: **Written for the lovely Gamma Orionis. I hope you'll enjoy this one-shot! :))

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**Broken Crown**

There's a passion burning in his veins, as pure as his blood and as dark as his beliefs. It's this passion that made him the Dark Lord's follower, and it's this passion that brought him his freedom.

Struggling to stand, Rodolphus braces himself against the ruins that were once the unyielding walls of his prison cell, pressing his right hand against his burning Dark Mark. It's a delicious burn – hot, angry, demanding. When he groans, he isn't sure whether it's from the pain or the pleasure. He has missed this, the ability to feel something other than hopeless despair.

Waves crash against the cliff, the sea roaring as wild as the wind that is ripping at his clothes. Rodolphus closes his eyes against the merciless onslaught of water and wind, turning his head towards the night sky and breathing in the cold night air. He is free. The Dark Lord has returned. The Dark Lord has kept his promise. He is free.

Laughter escapes his lips, rough and alien to his ears, but he can't stop. The laughter carries over the sound of the sea, filling the air and drowning out everything else. Soon other voices join in, laughing in disbelief and bliss as their prison walls crumble down in front of their eyes. High, cackling laughter fills the air as the Dementors, those wretched creatures, their tormentors, turn into their allies. The Dark Mark illuminates the night sky, casting a gloomy green light onto the ruins, and Rodolphus starts to drag himself forward, his laughter turning into wheezing coughs. He is free.

"Rod-, Rod-, Rodolphus!" a voice cries out, gruff and just as scratchy from disuse as his own.

Rough hands grip at his shoulder, pulling him forward and he stumbles, before falling to his knees. Panting, he looks up and into the eyes of his brother. Rabastan's hands wander from his shoulders to his face, touching his skin desperately, fingertips searching and exploring, as if to make sure that he's real and not just a hallucination. Rodolphus takes a hold of Rabastan's wrists, pressing his own fingers tightly against the other's skin until he can feel his pulse flutter under his fingertips.

"Rabastan."

He tastes the name on his tongue. He has said it before, numerous times. Has called it out between nightmares and feverish dreams as the Dementors took even the last speck of happiness from him. Has whispered it in the night to make sure his brother was still alive, still there, in the cell next to him. It tasted different now. Like a new beginning.

"Rabastan," he repeats and he smiles, a smile full of jagged teeth and cruel delight. "Rabastan."

The smile he gets in return mirrors his own, but it doesn't reach his brother's eyes. Instead, Rabastan's eyes are filled with exhaustion, pain and fear, searching his face and never lingering too long.

"The Dark Lord is back," Rodolphus whispers, before grinning even wider. "The Dark Lord is back, Rabastan! He kept his promise! He freed us! He's back!"

He's yelling now, his throat burning with every word, but he doesn't care. He joins in with the other inmates, his fellow people, and their yells and shrieks become their Lord's new hymn. They're gathering among the ruins, witches and wizards united by their cause, and celebrating their newfound freedom.

He's standing up now, dragging Rabastan with him. Together, they struggle to join the others. Rabastan is grunting in pain, leaning heavily on Rodolphus, but Rodolphus welcomes it. He relishes the feeling of his brother's warm body against his own, enjoys the screams of his muscles and bones.

They gather in the center of the ruins. Witches and wizards, dirty and crazed, but powerful in their pain. They move as one, scream as one. There's no individuality in Azkaban. The Dementors have stripped them bare of any such feeling. Hands are touching him, clawing at him. Screams are ringing in his ears, laughter in his mind. Rodolphus is drunk on all of this. His head is swimming, he's drifting along with everyone else. There's Bellatrix, right at the front, glorious in her own right, welcoming their saviours. Followers of the Dark Lord just like them.

They're handing out their wands, and it's madness. Rodolphus is pushing forward with the masses, reaching for his own, and then there's magic everywhere. In his veins, in his heart. His fingertips are bursting, his wand exploding in green, and silver, and insanity. If it wasn't for Rabastan holding onto him, keeping him grounded, Rodolphus would have lost himself right then and there.

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Rodolphus doesn't know how they made it out. He doesn't know how they got away from that damned island. He doesn't care. All he cares for is his freedom. He's freed from those shackles, from years of feeling like scum. Years without being able to cast magic, years of feeling like a bloody Muggle. His magic is back now, crackling inside of him. It's a raging fire and it burns everyone around him, even himself. It's the only proof he's still alive.

"You'll be the death of me," Rabastan says, but his hands don't stop traveling over Rodolphus' body. "You'll be the death of both of us."

Us, us, us. It's a mantra. It's a lullaby. Rodolphus repeats it out loud, hisses is like their Lord hisses His commands at them. Us, us, us. After a decade of loneliness and isolation, being together feels like salvation.

He's on fire, and not even Rabastan can cool him down. He's trying, though, has been trying ever since they got out. Lips on his skin. Rough and chapped and desperate. And hands. Hands that are everywhere, exploring every part of him. Every touch is like an explosion. Too much and too little at the same time. He can never get enough. So he takes and takes, while his brother gives and gives. At least some things never change.

There's hot breath on his neck. A tongue licking down the length of it till his brother finds the heartbeat fluttering under his skin. He's sucking that spot, teeth scraping, and Rodolphus groans, his hands tightening in Rabastan's hair. Pulling and clawing until it's Rabastan turn to cry out and growl against his skin. It's not soft, it's not silent. It's teeth and nails and screams and groans. It's not love, has never been love. Love is for the weak, for the protected. It's dark and twisted and it's the only thing keeping him alive. He is standing at the edge of an abyss, his very own descent into madness, and Rabastan is pulling him, dragging him, keeping him from falling into it.

He doesn't know how much time has passed since the Dark Lord freed them, doesn't know how long they've been fighting this doomed war. There's no safety in such silly facts, after all. The only safety he needs is Rabastan. Rabastan, Rabastan, Rabastan. All around him, imprisoning him and freeing him at the same time.

There's a passion burning in his veins, and it's going to kill them both.


End file.
